“Look how our partner [The Smee] ’s rapt withal. He can’t
take his eyes off that bird.”
Caught at the watering can from which he drinks (cf. “Da
Vater Code” parts I to infinity)
(OK, don’t: cf. I care)
The Smee is stunned and perplexified by the long-necked
vision of white avian pulchritude (darting its beak into the compost for worm
treats).
“Yo, The Smee wants to wring its delicate swanlike neck, ravage
her Leda-style, and engender his own Helen of Troy.”
“Yo, why don’t you take your myth-a-malogical allusions
around back to be shot?”
“As soon as you take your hardboiled pulp lingo out for a
ride with cement shoes.”
“Where’d The Smee get to?”
[exactly my question – ed.]
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